


Florence F***ing Nightingale

by sahiya



Series: Equal Partners [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giles gets the flu. Faith freaks the hell out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Florence F***ing Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

> Written for one of my own prompts in the [Giles H/C Ficathon](http://community.livejournal.com/tweedandtea/156087.html): Post-Chosen, comics canon. Giles catches the flu at some point while he and Faith are doing whatever it is they're doing. Faith is forced to take care of him. Does either of them survive? Thanks to [](http://fuzzyboo03.livejournal.com/profile)[**fuzzyboo03**](http://fuzzyboo03.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Early morning had always been Faith's favorite time of day, at least as long as she didn't have to get up to see it. Early morning as the start of a new day sucked - Faith was of the opinion that no day should start until late morning at the earliest. But early morning as the end of the old day usually meant Faith was coming down off a long night of at least one of her three favorite things: dancing, slaying, or fucking.

This town didn't have much in the way of dancing unless you liked to do it in a line, but it did have a tiny vamp population, all six of which were now blowin' in the wind. It'd been days since Faith had scratched that itch, felt the thrust of stake through ribcage and straight into heart. Mission accomplished, she picked up a McMuffin as a reward from the McDonald's as it opened and headed back to the motel, where she knew she'd find Giles waiting up for her. She'd screw him and then they'd fall asleep together and wake up in time for the late check-out G had asked for. There was a slayer in Minnesota, Willow's last email had said, who'd broken her abusive boyfriend's arm the night the spell happened and the prick had pressed charges. They'd put the most recent rescue, Meg, on a plane to Scotland yesterday morning, and now they were in some podunk town in eastern Montana.

Faith'd had just about enough of podunk Montana towns and just about enough of snow - because she was from Boston, where yeah, sure, it snowed, but it was city snow. It came down, hung around awhile, turned into dirty gray slush, and melted. Out here, the snow came and stayed.

It'd snowed that night during her patrol. Faith had barely noticed at the time, but she did now that she wasn't navigating by her vamp-sense. She popped the last bite into her mouth and wished she'd bought a coffee, too. The wind went straight through her jacket. Maybe she'd screw G in the shower this morning. Get the water as hot as it would go and then have him go down on her. He'd like that. He liked all of it, Faith thought with a smirk as she vaulted over the hedge into the parking lot of the Motel 6. She stuffed the grease-stained McDonald's sack into a trash can so G wouldn't lecture her on slayer nutrition, but she'd have to brush her teeth before kissing him or he'd taste it on her. Not to mention the cigs.

She took the stairs three at a time 'cause that was how much she wanted to get to him. Which, okay, was weird for her. She kinda remembered that with Robin at the beginning, but even then she'd never rushed home to see him. As far back as Faith could remember, home had been the place she went when she couldn't think of an excuse to be somewhere else. All that bullshit about home being a person was just that - bullshit. People were unreliable. They flaked. They walked out. And men? Men were the worst. You let a man start feeling like home and eventually you'd end up sleeping on the corner of Broadway and whatever, all curled up in a sorry-ass little ball with your cat.

Which made it weird as fuck that even though Faith didn't technically have a home these days, she still felt less homeless than she ever had living in Cleveland. Her life in Cleveland had sucked. Her life with Giles didn't. This partnership between equals shit could really go to a girl's head.

Faith keyed herself into their room, enjoying the wicked buzz she had on from six good slays and the long jog home. She'd never get to sleep without a decent orgasm or three, but that wasn't hard to do with G. Hard to believe he'd worn all that tweed when she first met him and now he was her one-stop-shop for all her orgasm needs. "Yo, G," she said, letting the door swing shut behind her. Then she froze, keycard halfway back into her pocket.

He was asleep. Fucking _asleep_.

What the hell? The bedside lamp was on, his book lay open on his chest, but he was asleep. Which in six months of _equal partnership_ had never happened before. She went out slaying; G either came with or waited up if he didn't. He'd told her he couldn't sleep anyway, not until he knew she was home safe. She'd given him shit for it, but she'd liked knowing that he worried about her. It was nice, in a stupid sort of way. And now here he was, sacked out in their bed.

She scowled at him. She kept scowling as she stripped off her jacket and clothes. She made as much noise as possible in the bathroom, leaving the door wide open and making sure to drop her hairbrush in the sink at least four or five times. Each time she leaned back to peer out and see if he'd moved, but he hadn't.

Fine, then. She slapped the brush down and stomped out. She was wearing a sweatshirt, yoga pants, and wool socks and she was still cold. He was asleep. Well, tough shit. It was time to wake up.

She crawled on top of him in three quick, efficient moves, and settled herself, straddling him. He didn't stir. She rocked slightly. He did stir at that, or at least part of him did, but he didn't open his eyes. She ran a tongue over her teeth, tasting minty freshness without a hint of cig or McMuffin, and bent to kiss him awake like some lame-ass Prince Charming.

Was he ever gonna pay for this later.

Faith had gotten pretty chilled out there, so it took her a couple seconds to realize that no matter how cold she was, Giles's lips never should've been that hot and dry. The rest of him was hot, too, and not sexy-hot, hot-hot.

She jerked away. "Shit," she muttered, staring down at him, hoping like hell now that he wouldn't wake up.

No such luck. She was way too good. Giles twitched, blinked a bunch of times, and then looked up at her, squinting. "Faith?" he said, voice all raspy. And then, a moment later, wincing, "Oh, bloody hell."

Faith froze, every muscle in her body tense and ready. She'd always been the goddamn poster girl for fight or flight. "What the fuck's the matter with you?" she demanded, glaring down at him.

Giles paused in the middle of rubbing his forehead and peered up at her, still squinting like his head hurt him. "Faith?" he said again.

She scrambled back off the bed. "No, G, I mean it. What the fuck's the matter with you? Are you _sick_?"

He stared, apparently baffled. Not that Faith could explain it herself. All she knew was that the buzz had turned into an itch right beneath her skin, and there was this awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. She paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, glaring at Giles, who just lay there looking stupid and _sick_, with bed-head and no glasses. Usually she liked him with no glasses, since he really only ever took them off when they had sex, but today she just wished he'd put them back on and stop looking so goddamn pathetic.

"It would seem so," Giles said, kinda carefully, like you'd talk to some animal you thought was gonna bite. "Just a touch of flu, I'm sure."

"Well, stop it!"

He raised his eyebrows and pushed himself up on one arm, wincing again. "Er, believe me, I would if I - where are you going?"

"Out," she said, grabbing her jacket and her shoes, not even bothering to put either of them on until she was out the door and down the stairs and halfway across the parking lot, where the _holy shit cold_ finally caught up with her and she realized that all she had on was a sweatshirt and yoga pants. She kept glancing up at their room on the second floor as she stuffed her feet into her shoes, but Giles didn't come after her. Of course he didn't. He was _sick_ and _sick_ people didn't come out in weather like this. She shrugged into her jacket and stood there between two snow-dusted cars, stamping her feet and wishing she'd grabbed her gloves.

_Go_, said the voice in the back of her head, that stupid voice that always got her in trouble.

Too bad she'd never learned to ignore it. Between one breath and the next she was over the hedge and running.

***

Well. Wasn't this just bloody brilliant.

Giles slumped back against the pillows. He felt . . . well, like he had the flu, and a bad one at that. His head hurt. Swallowing hurt. Muscles he hadn't been previously aware of hurt. He was shivering and thirsty and he had to use the toilet, but the bathroom seemed awfully far just then. He curled up on his side facing it, as though that would somehow help, and decided he was entitled to a few minutes of wallowing. He was ill, in a strange city, in a strange bed, and the one person he'd thought he could rely on had just bolted straight out the door. She might be back, or she might not. Giles's head was pounding already without adding the effort of trying to parse motivations he was certain were a mystery even to Faith.

At least this meant he could be miserable in peace and would not have to suffer the indignity of an audience.

Giles managed to get himself propped up on one elbow and then, eventually, more or less sitting up on the edge of the bed, where the full realization of exactly how ill he was hit him in a wave of dizzying nausea. He was absolutely determined not to throw up on the motel rug, with or without an audience. Since there was no way he could stand up without falling over and the bin was not within reach, he simply forced himself to breathe through it until it had passed.

By the time it did, Giles was willing to sell his dignity and possibly much more besides for someone to help him to the toilet, draw him a bath, and fix him a cup of a tea. Except, he realized with a jolt, he didn't actually _have_ any tea. There was a coffeemaker in the room, but it was supplied with instant coffee and nothing else. He'd used up the last of his personal supply two days ago and not had the chance to buy more. He didn't have any paracetamol, orange juice, or ginger ale, either, much less Lemsip or Beecham's.

This was going to be very unpleasant.

"Damn," he muttered to his knees. "All right, Giles. Stand up."

Standing up turned out to be a bad idea, but at least he managed to stumble the short distance to the toilet before surrendering to the nausea. Not that he had much in him to throw up; he'd started feeling off the night before and barely picked at the Chinese takeaway they'd got for dinner.

The bout was mercifully short-lived but left him very drained. He slumped against the bathtub and could not bring himself to move until he began shivering in earnest. Then, clinging to the side of the bath, he managed to get lever himself up to reach the tap. He adjusted the water until it was hot, though in a small concession to his fever, not quite as hot as he would have liked.

While the bath was running he managed to use the toilet and then actually stand, without any worse consequence than some brief dizziness. He brushed his teeth and filled a plastic cup with water, which he drank slowly, gripping the counter top with his free hand. He felt somewhat steadier afterward, at least enough to get into the bath without too much trouble, though getting out was going to be interesting.

He'd drained and refilled the bath once and was considering doing so a second time, mostly to avoid having to climb out in what was sure to be an affront to his already rather battered dignity, when he heard the door to the room open and close. He found himself holding very still; he heard Faith take her jacket off and drop it - on the floor, most likely, knowing her. Then she came and hovered in the threshold to the bathroom, a white plastic bag swinging from one hand.

"Jesus, G, you look like shit."

Wonderful. Yes, this was exactly what he'd wished for while trying not to vomit all over the carpet. "I have the flu, Faith," he said, leaning his head back against the towel he'd used to pad the edge of the bath. "I feel like shit. Did you have a pleasant walk?"

She glared at him but came in and hitched herself onto the counter. "Whatever, G. I don't know what you were expecting."

"When someone is ill, it is customary to ask if there is anything you can do for them," he pointed out, aware that he was only making the situation worse. But his head ached terribly, the water was getting cold, and he'd be damned if he'd ask her to help him out of the bath now.

With a scowl, she tossed the white plastic bag at him. It landed on his mostly dry chest, spilling out half its contents. He squinted at the labels. Tylenol Cold and Flu, Advil, Theraflu, cough drops. "No tea?" he said, and instantly wished he could take it back. Not only because it came out as a pathetic whine, but because he looked up just in time to see a fleeting look of - something, maybe sympathy, possibly even tenderness, vanish as Faith's face settled back into the hard mask she'd worn for most of the time he'd known her. It was a mask he actually hadn't seen much of these past few months, and he hadn't missed it. He was especially sorry to see it now.

She glared and slid off the counter. "You know what, I ain't your precious Buffy, and I ain't Florence fucking Nightingale." She reached to snatch the bag away, but he clutched it.

"I'm sorry. Faith," he added, when she didn't soften, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - thank you. I appreciate the effort. And," he took a deep breath and clutched helplessly at the shreds of his dignity, "it's really quite all right if you'd rather I fend for myself today, only could you please help me out of the bath before you go?"

She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, still glaring at him, until at last she nodded. He braced himself on either side of the bath, but was unprepared for how quickly she levered him up, fast enough and roughly enough that he ended up leaning against the cold tile wall, knees turned to water and head reeling. The nausea returned and then some, and he couldn't move for fear he'd be sick. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth.

"Are you gonna yack on me?" Faith demanded, stepping out from under his arm. He managed not to fall over, but it was a close thing. "Fucking hell," he heard her mutter, "this is not what I signed up for."

He opened his eyes then to glare at her. "Well, I do apologize for inconveniencing you," he ground out, "but sometimes it's what happens. Did you think they stuck 'in sickness and in health' into wedding vows randomly?"

"Yeah, well, we're not married, and I'm not B."

"So you keep saying." It seemed safe to move now, if not to let go of the wall. Giles reached for a towel and did his best to dry himself off one-handed. "You seem to have mistaken the relationship I have with Buffy." Had. No, he told himself firmly, now was not the time for that. He needed to concentrate on getting out of the bath and back to bed, where he could lie down. Maybe then the room would stop its slow, nauseous spin.

"What, doesn't she fuss over you when you're sick?" Faith asked with a sneer. "Bring you soup and crackers?"

First one foot out and then the other. Faith was backed up against the counter, watching him. He was naked and freezing, and he wished she'd either be useful or stop staring. "Only if Willow made her. I'm Buffy's Watcher. It's a very one-way relationship at times. Not a partnership between equals. Could you possibly get a clean undershirt and boxers out of my bag?"

"Yeah," she muttered, not looking at him now.

Giles waited until her back was turned to start the slow shuffle back to the bed. He was nearly there by the time she shoved the clothes into his hands. She still wasn't looking at him, he noticed with some relief; something he'd said must have had an effect. God only knew what. He'd thought they were past this, that Faith had realized there wasn't any need for the mask and the posturing with him. Apparently not. Apparently there were rules he'd not been told, and just now he was far too weary from the effort required by taking a bath and putting on his underwear even to consider attempting to work them out. He slumped on the edge of the bed. "Where did the bag go?" he asked, rather incoherently.

Faith didn't answer, but she did retrieve it from the bathroom. He shook out two of the Tylenol and then blinked in bafflement at the cup of water she thrust in front of his face. "Thank you," he said, accepting it before swallowing the pills. Truthfully, he'd have liked the Theraflu as well - if tea was not to be had then he'd take what he could get. But Faith already had her coat in her hand and was edging toward the door, and he didn't have the energy to make it himself. God, how he hated being helpless, and Faith's obvious discomfort was only making his own worse.

He lay down and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It was a strange bed but at least it was a bed. He pulled all the blankets over himself, unhygienic motel comforter and all, and thought he might eventually be warm enough to stop shivering. His face was hot, though, and the pillow was wonderfully cool. He had to stifle a moan as he pressed his face into it. "I'm going to sleep for a bit," he mumbled.

"Yeah. You do that. I'm going - out." With that, she was gone. Giles raised his head and blinked after her, but not for very long. He fell back onto the pillow and sleep pulled him under.

***

Faith managed not to leave the parking lot this time. Considering that when she'd run out earlier she'd ended up down by the highway with her thumb stuck out, she considered this an improvement. And hey, she got points for having come back at all, _she_ thought, though Giles probably didn't think of it that way. She wasn't sure he knew that a couple years ago she'd have been halfway to Boise by now, because she didn't do vulnerable. She'd gotten better about it with G, but cuddling and crap after sex was one thing. So was patching each other up after a bad vamp fight. She'd shoved his dislocated shoulder back into place before without a second thought, but that was watcher/slayer stuff, sort of, even if he wasn't technically her watcher. This was just . . . people stuff, and she wasn't good at it. She sucked at it, in fact, as she'd just proven. Twice.

"Goddammit," she muttered, pacing back and forth by the hedge. At least this time she'd remembered to grab her cigs before taking off. She fumbled the crumpled pack out now and lit one, dragging at it with a desperation she hated. She couldn't even hide behind her old standby excuse, that he only wanted one thing from her anyway and it wasn't like he'd take care of her if she was the one feeling like she'd been hit by one of the big rigs they kept getting stuck behind on the highway. Because G would have. If she were the one sick, he'd fuss over her until she couldn't stand it. Chicken soup and - and whatever else you gave sick people.

Tea. How could she have forgotten tea? He was English for fuck's sake, he practically mainlined the stuff when he _wasn't_ sick.

"Damn, damn, damn," she said, stomping her boots in the snow. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

She paced and smoked some more, until the panicky feeling finally started to go away. It took long enough that her fingers and the tip of her nose started to go numb, but finally she threw the butt on the ground and put it out by stomping snow over it. All right. She'd fucked up, but that was okay, she'd make up for it. Somehow. If this was part of the whole partnership between equals gig, then she could do it. She didn't really want him lying alone in that room all day, anyway. He deserved to have someone looking after him. Someone-not-her would be better for them both, but that wasn't an option. So fine. She'd do it.

First things first. She went into reception and told them they'd need the room for two more nights at least and asked about some sort of kitchen she could use. The kitchen wasn't really for guests, the manager informed her, but even in a sweatshirt and yoga pants there were still some things Faith was damn good at. She widened her eyes, tilted her head, and said that her friend was sick and wouldn't it be possible just this once as an exception?

By the time she left she had a key to the kitchen in one pocket, the number for a local urgent care place in the other, and the manager had said he'd drive them if need be. Faith really, really hoped it wouldn't be - Giles had looked like shit, but she didn't think he was sick enough to go to the doctor's. But hell, everything she knew about medicine she'd learned from watching _General Hospital_. What did she know?

Not a thing, she was finding out. Except how to flirt her way into favors from motel managers. Not a bad skill, and one that Faith was glad to have, but not really what was called for in this situation.

Back out in the parking lot, Faith pulled apart the blueberry muffin she'd grabbed from the continental breakfast table and stood for a minute looking up at their room at the top of the concrete staircase. Her mom used to give her orange Jell-O and Cup o' Noodles and cheap, Stop and Shop brand Seven-Up when she was sick. Somehow she didn't think that was gonna fly with G. She didn't know what he wanted, except tea. It was probably something weird she'd never heard of before. And she'd screwed things up so bad this morning, she wasn't even sure she'd get him to tell her now.

Plus, he was asleep. She was pretty sure you weren't supposed to wake sick people up to make them tell you what they wanted.

Shit. She sighed, stuffed the last piece of muffin in her mouth, and paced in a circle. Then she pulled off a glove, ran a hand through her hair - and realized that even if she didn't know what he wanted, she knew someone who probably did.

If she decided this was worth calling Scotland about.

Faith fidgeted. It wasn't like she and Willow were bestest friends - there was definitely no hair-braiding or nail-painting or secret-telling in that future - and she probably hated Faith even more now because of Buffy and G. Still, maybe Willow would at least give her a clue about what she should do here. Because Faith had run out of ideas about ten minutes ago, and she was getting worried about what that stupid voice in the back of her head might come up with if she stood here for much longer.

She snuck into the room as quietly as possible - not that it'd have mattered. Giles was dead to the world, buried under about eight layers of blankets. She hesitated, staring at him, and then touched the backs of her fingers to his face. Jesus, he was burning up. Worse than he had been earlier when she'd kissed him. But he'd taken the Tylenol not long ago so maybe his fever would start to come down soon. She was tempted to go get a wet washcloth for him or something - she thought she'd seen that in a movie once - but he'd wake up if she did and she wasn't sure she was ready to deal with that. She could just about handle standing here with him asleep, but if he woke up she'd say exactly the wrong thing and then they'd be in trouble. Again.

She snagged his cell off the nightstand and let herself out again. Probably the smart thing to do would be to go into the reception area to make the call, but this called for cigarette if anything ever had, so instead she ended up out by her hedge again, pacing back and forth in the track she'd worn down earlier. She held the lit cig between her lips while she found Willow's number in the cell's address book. How far ahead was Scotland anyway? Whatever, it was still the ass crack of dawn here, it couldn't be that late there. She hit the green button without giving herself any more chance to freak out and do something stupid.

She half-hoped Willow wouldn't answer, but she picked up on the second ring. "Giles?" she said breathlessly.

"Uh, no," Faith said, already wishing she hadn't done this. "It's Faith."

Silence. Faith paused in her pacing and silently cursed a blue streak, mouthing the words to herself around the cigarette. "Faith," Willow said at last. "Hey. Uh, is Giles okay?"

"Yeah," Faith said. "Yeah, he's - well, sorta."

"Sorta? What does that mean?"

"He's - shit, you know what, never mind. I never should've -"

"Faith, if Giles is in trouble -"

"He's not in trouble," Faith said quickly. She tapped the cigarette and the ashes fell over the snow. "He's just - God, this is sounds so stupid. He's got the goddamn flu, Willow, and I don't know what to do."

This time the silence was pretty long - three drags at least. Faith thought about hanging up, and eventually she started to think Willow actually had. "Willow?" she said at last.

"Yeah, sorry. I just - he's got the flu? That's why you're calling?"

"Yeah, I know, I know it sounds stupid. I just thought you might know what I should do. I screwed up this morning, I forgot his damn tea, and now -"

"Hey, Faith, it's fine, I was just surprised, that's all. Uh . . ." Willow paused. "I take it he's been sorta cranky?"

"Yeah, well." Faith looked down at her boots and kicked at a clump of icy snow until it broke apart. "I earned it." The really pathetic part, she reflected, was that she actually was trying not to fuck this up like she'd fucked up every other good thing that'd ever happened to her, but old habits died hard, apparently.

"Well, rule number one of dealing with a sick Giles is not to take anything he says personally. He hates being sick. Like, a lot. It embarrasses him, I think. And he gets grouchy."

"Yeah, I noticed." The cig was out. She dug a hole in the snow with the toe of her boot and dropped it in.

"So you kinda just have to ignore everything he says and do what you need to do."

"Which is?"

"What?"

Faith blew out an exasperated breath. "What do I need to do? I'm not Florence fucking Nightingale." She should make this her new motto, she thought. Maybe get a t-shirt printed. "I'm _trying_ here, but I don't have a clue what I -"

"Beans on toast."

Faith blinked. "Huh?"

"It's a British thing. Baked beans on toast. Totally gross, but he loves it. Veggie soup - he used to keep frozen stock in his freezer in Sunnydale, but I'm sure the canned stuff'll do. Chicken broth, I guess, if he's feeling really crappy, like from the cubes. And toast with Marmite if you can find it. Where are you, anyway?"

Faith sighed and tucked the hand without the phone under her arm for warmth - and to keep from pulling out another cig. She was gonna be in deep enough shit with G as it was. "I don't even know. Butt fuck nowhere. Eastern Montana. On our way to Minnesota."

"So probably no Marmite for about five hundred miles in any direction. Toast with butter, then."

"Toast, butter, check." She nodded. Toast, okay. Even she could do toast. And soup out of a can. The beans thing was weird - she knew the one thing he'd want would be something she'd never heard of - but how hard could it be? "Anything else?"

"Orange juice, maybe. I dunno, mostly I just helped him out when he had a concussion."

"Right. Orange juice." She took a deep breath. "Thanks."

"No problem. Look, Faith . . ."

Crap. She knew she was getting off too easy. "What?"

"Not that it's any of my business, but you and Giles - are you guys, you know, sleeping together?"

"No, it's _not_ any of your business," Faith snapped, and then shut her mouth so hard it hurt. Old habits. Dammit. "Sorry. Yeah. We are. Is that a problem?"

"Not for me," Willow said carefully.

"But it would be for B."

"She gets weird about sharing Giles."

"Well, right now she's not speaking to him," Faith pointed out, "so I don't see how sharing really comes into it."

"Yeah," Willow said, kinda sadly. "Anyway, tell Giles I hope he feels better."

"Will do."

Faith hung up and slipped the phone into her pocket. All right. She had a plan now, and a list. She might not be Florence fucking Nightingale, but she could do this. Really.

***

Giles drifted, not quite asleep, but aware that there was a great deal of discomfort awaiting him should he wake up. He clutched at oblivion for as long as possible but gradually realized that someone else was in the room, moving about, and they smelled like cigarettes. He heard the rustle of plastic bags being set down, a jacket and shoes being taken off, and then whoever it was - Faith, he thought, in his first moment of real clarity - went into the bathroom and shut the door.

He sighed and opened his eyes. Yes, there was the discomfort. Head, throat, muscles, stomach, all checking in, none of them best pleased with the current state of affairs. He shifted his head to a cool part of the pillow. Tea, he thought, swallowing painfully. He certainly hoped there was tea in the offing, or he could not be held accountable for his actions. He let his eyes drift shut again and kept them that way when Faith came out of the bathroom. He heard her fuss with one of the bags on the desk and then the bed dipped as she sat down beside him. She laid two fingers on his forehead, surprisingly gentle. He opened his eyes.

"Hey," she said.

"Hullo." She hadn't moved her fingers. They were cool and dry. It felt good to be touched, but Giles was wary after this morning. "What time is it?"

"Just after noon."

"Oh, damn," he croaked, pushing himself up. "I told them we'd be checking out today."

"I took care of it."

He blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah. Another two nights in paradise," she said dryly, looking around the shabby little room.

He slumped back, rubbing a hand over his face. "I think one will do."

"Two nights, no bitching," she replied, frowning. "The last thing I want is to have to shove that stupid rental car out of a ditch filled with frozen mud because you passed out at the wheel. And that's the best case scenario."

He sighed, but didn't make much of an effort to conceal his relief - or his gratitude. "Very well."

"Damn straight." She took a deep breath, and Giles finally noticed through the general fever-headache-no glasses fuzziness that she was about as coiled up and tense as he'd ever seen her. The cigarette smell was stronger than usual, as well, and she really only smoked heavily when she was distressed. One of her hands lay on top of the covers over his thigh, but the other one was clutching a plastic bag in a white-knuckled grip. He frowned slightly and then decided to play along as though he hadn't noticed.

He nodded toward the plastic bag. "There wouldn't happen to be tea in that, would there?"

She made a face at him. "Yes, there's tea. About eight different kinds, 'cause I didn't know what you'd want." She dropped it on the bed. "The guy at the health food store said the ginger stuff was good. Can you believe this sorry-ass little town has a health food store? I mean, sure, it was about half the size of the feed store, but hey. Whatever."

Giles reached over and turned on the bedside lamp before poking through the contents of the bag. He found the ginger tea, sniffed it, and nodded. "I think that will do just fine."

"Cool. I'll just, uh, heat up the water then."

Giles watched, faintly puzzled, as she went through the motions with the coffee machine, putting the water in to run through without a filter. She'd obviously managed to rein in her discomfort while he'd been asleep, though it was still palpable in her posture and the way she avoided his eyes. But she was here, she wasn't lashing out at him irrationally, and she obviously intended to stay. Giles would take what he could get.

"So, um," she said, turning back, "how're you feeling? Better?" She hovered by the bed, her hands twisting together.

"A bit. Though more paracetamol in the near future would not go amiss." He reached up and caught her hand. "Faith, thank you. For the tea."

"No big," she said, looking away.

"It is," he said quietly. "You obviously went to some trouble and I appreciate it."

"Yeah, well, you'd do it for me." She cleared her throat and tugged her hand away. "I got you some other stuff. At Safeway." She retrieved the second bag and dropped on the bed next to him, on top of the tea. He held his hand out to her; after a few seconds she took it and sat down beside him. He rubbed his thumb over her palm with one hand, reached into the bag with the other, and came up with a can of Heinz baked beans. He blinked at it and then raised his eyebrows at her. "For the toast," she said, raising her eyebrows and speaking slowly, as though he were rather slow.

"Yes, but . . ." He paused. "How on earth did you know?"

She fished his mobile out of her pocked and flipped it onto the bed. "Willow says she hopes you feel better." With that she was off the bed again, not looking at him, fussing with the coffeemaker. He couldn't see much without his glasses, but he heard the clatter of spoon against mug and then she was pushing it into his hands.

It hadn't steeped nearly long enough, but Giles didn't care. It was comforting just to wrap his hands around it and breathe it in. It was faintly coffee scented, but otherwise it smelled like ginger and tea and a bit like lemons. Heaven.

"Hey, G." He looked up to see her smiling at him, the first unguarded expression he'd seen on her since last night. "Want me to give the two of you a moment alone?"

"What?"

"You're snuggling the tea."

"I am not," he said indignantly. She raised her eyebrows at him. He looked down and realized he'd more or less curled himself around the mug, and that _snuggling_ was perhaps not quite as inappropriate a description as he might have liked. "Oh."

"I can step outside if you want," Faith said, actually grinning now.

He met and held her gaze. "No," he said quietly. "Please don't."

She dropped her gaze down to her hands. "I was just kidding, G."

"I know."

"Anyway," she said, making to get up, "you should eat something, so I -"

"Not right now," he said firmly, tightening his grip on her hand just slightly.

"You gotta eat."

He shook his head, wincing. "No food. In a bit, maybe." He hesitated briefly. "But right now I'd really like it if you came to bed."

He saw her marshaling her arguments, her excuses, her defenses. And then he saw the moment she took a deep breath and chose - him. "Yeah. Okay."

She didn't look at him as she dug her pajamas out of her bag and, in an extremely un-Faith-like burst of modesty, went into the bathroom to change. He stared at the closed bathroom door and felt something in him ease. He hadn't realized until then exactly how afraid he'd been that he'd completely overestimated their relationship, and that when he suddenly needed her, she wouldn't be there. She hadn't been this morning. He still wasn't entirely certain what had happened, but she seemed to have got control of it on her own. It would only make her uncomfortable to talk about it now, and he wasn't sure he had the energy for it. This would be better for both of them.

She returned with a cup of water and two more paracetamol in one hand and a folded-up flannel in the other. "Take 'em," she said, holding the pills and the water out to him. He did so dutifully, drank the rest of the water, and then stuck the tea bag into the empty plastic cup. She tossed it into the bin under the desk and crawled up on the bed beside him, pushing the comforter aside with a grimace but sliding beneath the blankets willingly enough. He was careful not to spill his tea, which was still too hot to drink, as they maneuvered around each other carefully. He ended up propped against her, her arm around his shoulders, his head resting against her side.

She lay the damp, cool flannel across his forehead. "How's your tea?"

"Not sure. Haven't tried it yet." He blew across the surface and took a first cautious sip.

"Good?"

He nodded. "Very gingery. And . . ." He sipped again. "Honey and lemon?"

"Yeah. The guy at the health food store said it was good for sore throats and stuff."

He leaned into her. "Thank you."

"Like I said, G, no big. You'd do it for me."

He nodded. He closed his eyes and drank his tea slowly, cradling the mug against his chest between sips. Between the tea and Faith, he felt much less chilly than he had earlier. His stomach had settled a bit and he was growing pleasantly drowsy. Faith adjusted the flannel and stroked his hair lightly.

He was nearly asleep when he felt her take the mug from him. "Mmm," he mumbled in protest.

"You were gonna spill. Lie back. There, like that." She tucked the blankets around him.

He peered up at her. "You -" he yawned "- stay?"

She nodded. She looked sad, Giles thought. Or perhaps it was something else. "Yeah, G, I'll stay. You mind if I put the TV on real quiet?"

"No, s'fine." He was so tired, and his head hurt. Everything hurt. Not quite as much as it had earlier, without her, but it still hurt. She stretched out beside him, sitting up against the headboard on top of the covers, and he rolled over to lay his head in her lap. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the murmur of the TV, the motion of her fingers in his hair, and the warm, faint scent of her skin.

***

Well, this was new. And wicked freaky.

Faith looked down at Giles and watched the motion of her own hand in his hair like it belonged to someone else. She kinda wished there was someone here - someone conscious - to appreciate how very much she wasn't running right now. She was sitting here, watching bad daytime TV with G's head in her lap, and not on a Greyhound bus with a one-way ticket to Anywhere-But-Here. Hell, she wasn't even reaching for her pack of cigs. She was impressed, even if no one else was.

But that wasn't the freaky part.

No, the freaky part was that she wanted to be here. That scared the hell out of her. That had the part of her brain that scented danger in screaming fits. And yet, here she was. Because when Giles had given her that fuzzy, not-all-there look, and said, "Please don't" in that plaintive tone, something inside her had cracked. And that had been fucking freaky, but even freakier now was this warm feeling in the pit of her stomach, because she was pretty sure she knew exactly what to call that. Not to mention the urge to bring him tea and tuck him in and overall do the stupid sort of caring shit she was no good at because no one had ever done it for her.

Faith didn't do vulnerable, and she didn't do falling in love. That shit would fuck you up big time. She'd seen it with every loser her mom ever brought home. Giles wasn't a loser, but if this went south it was gonna go way, way south.

_Go,_ that voice said. _Go, go, go. You could be gone before he wakes up and he wouldn't even know which direction you went in._

She didn't. Stupid or brave? That was the million dollar question. Except Faith didn't know if it applied here, because she was pretty sure this fell firmly into the stupid category and she was still here.

Daytime TV in eastern Montana was even crappier than it was in Sunnydale, and Faith hadn't had any sleep in over twenty-four hours. She found herself nodding off during _Passions_, and by the time a guest threw the first chair on _Jerry Springer_, she'd given up altogether. She shifted Giles just enough to wiggle her way down under the covers. He made sleepy, protesting noises that Faith tried to pretend weren't adorable, but as soon as she had herself settled he cuddled right back up, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. She lay there listening to the mutter of the TV and G's sorta raspy breathing. She thought his fever had come down a bit, but he was still too warm all wrapped around her like that. She should be shoving him off, she thought, staking her claim for her side of the bed. But she wasn't.

Shit. This was bad. This was way, way bad. And like a lot of things that were bad, it felt really fucking good.

She woke to a dark, quiet room. The TV was off and the sun must have gone down, because it was dark except for the light coming in from the bathroom. A quick glance at the bedside clock told her it was just after five. She rolled over and realized Giles was awake and looking at her from about six inches away.

"Hi," she said, trying not to let on that he'd startled her. Mostly succeeded, too, or at least she hadn't shot out of bed and across the room.

"Mmm," he said, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"You look better."

"I feel a bit better."

"Sleep is good," she said, propping herself up on one elbow.

"Sleep is good," he agreed. "You're better."

She didn't know what she was supposed to say to that, but it turned out she didn't have to say anything, because he kissed her. Not a lot, just for a few seconds. She was too surprised to really get into it before he backed off to look at her. She raised her eyebrows. "Feeling that much better?"

He sighed and dropped his head to rest against her shoulder. "No, unfortunately. I think I need more paracetamol. And," he hesitated before adding, "possibly a back rub?"

"Hmm," she said, eyeing him. He looked pathetically hopeful, and that stupid warm feeling was back. It made her want to give him anything he wanted, just to make him feel better. Falling in love turned you so damn stupid. "Yeah, okay, I'll rub your back. But first you gotta eat something."

He made a face. "I'm really not at all hungry."

"Toast," she said. "With or without the beans. And I gotta say, G, that's like the grossest thing I've ever heard of."

He sniffed. "It is not. It's classic English comfort food."

"Good. Then you won't mind eating some of it. Or soup. I got soup with, like, vegetables in it. Or broth from those little cube things you put in hot water."

"Bullion," he said, brightening slightly and losing the kinda green, grossed out look. "That sounds all right."

"With orange juice," she added sternly.

"As long as there's tea as well."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll make you your tea, English guy." She rolled her eyes and threw back the blankets. "Everything's a fucking negotiation."

He rolled his eyes in return. "Yes, and you just go along ever so willingly with whatever I say."

"Whatever. You want that, you should be hanging out with one of the pie-eyed mini slayers." She got him the orange juice and the bag of over the counter crap from this morning. He took two Tylenol and lay back, sipping his juice, while she started the coffee maker heating the water. She didn't even really need the key to the kitchen, since she'd grabbed two mugs when she'd been in there earlier and the water from the coffee maker would be hot enough for the broth. She rinsed the tea mug out in the bathroom and paced around the bed while she waited for the water to boil, rubbing her hands together, then doing some arm stretches. She felt all twitchy. She thought she'd dusted all the vamps in this town last night, but maybe she was wrong. She could use some good old fashioned violence right now. That was easy. That she could do, no problem.

"I never asked how your patrol went last night," G said, like he'd read her mind or something.

She shrugged and tugged the curtains back to look out. All she could see was the parking lot with its snow-covered lumps, illuminated by the streetlight. Only four of them today. It'd snowed again and the groove she'd worn out by the hedges that morning was covered over. Thinking about that made her even twitchier - mostly embarrassment that she'd freaked out so bad, but also some leftover freakiness. The room felt too small, too dark, too stuffy. It smelled like sickness, like her mom's room after a bender. Only without the pukey smell, she was glad to say. She really didn't think she could've handled watching Giles hurl. "Six vamps. All dust."

"Six? Goodness. That's a lot for such a quiet little town, isn't it?"

"Well, y'know. One comes through, makes a couple more. No one around to do the slay thing, so each of them makes a couple 'cause they've read too many bad Ann Rice novels and they think they're some lame-ass master vampire. Bet they were all townies. Didn't leave before they died, didn't leave after. Dust."

Giles nodded. "Were you thinking of going out tonight?"

She shrugged again, just one shoulder. "Yeah. Why not."

"You haven't had much sleep."

"So? This ain't SunnyD. It's not even Cleveland. The big bads here aren't exactly supersized."

"No, but . . ." G was quiet. "If you're tired, Faith, that's when things happen."

She turned around and crossed her arms over her chest. "You questioning my skills, G? 'Cause we agreed. I don't tell you how to do the watcher thing, you don't tell me how to be a slayer."

"No," he said quickly, "of course not. I was only saying - well. I wish you would stay in tonight."

She fidgeted. "Yeah. Maybe. Or I might go for a jog or something. I got some energy to burn." And she had a wicked craving for a cigarette. But just normal, haven't-had-one-lately wicked, not majorly-freaked-gotta-have-one-_now_ wicked.

The water was ready. She poured half into each mug, did the honey-lemon-tea thing with one, and stirred one of those funny little brown cubes into the other. He went for the tea first, of course, even though it hadn't finished steeping, wrapping his fingers around it and breathing it in. He got this blissed-out look on his face that made Faith want to laugh. She didn't. Instead she sat cross legged at the foot of the bed and looked out the window. It was March now. When the hell was spring gonna show up?

"Have you eaten anything today?" G asked after a kinda long silence. He'd set the tea aside at last and was working slowly on the broth.

"Had a muffin this morning. I'll get something if I go out later."

"Not fast food."

She glared. "Guess who's a grown-up, G, and will eat what she damn well pleases. Drink your fucking broth."

"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly, and took a long, slow sip.

Later, after he'd finished the tea and most of the broth, she made good on her promise. He lay on his stomach on the bed, head on his hands. She'd never done this before - he'd rubbed her back after a long patrol or a bad fight and sometimes before or after sex, but she'd never returned the favor. He'd never asked her to, either, not until this afternoon. It made her nervous, straddling his hips like this when it wasn't about sex. And he was all half-naked there in front of her.

She could do anything to him and he wouldn't be able to stop her. It made her think of Wes, tied to a chair.

Shit.

"Faith?" G said, lifting his head. "Are you all right?"

She really didn't deserve this man. "Yeah," she managed. "Fine. Sorry. I - uh, I've never done this before, so tell me if I - if I hurt you."

He craned his head around to look at her. "You won't," he said quietly.

How the hell did he know that, she wondered, when she didn't herself? She swallowed and squirted some lotion onto her shaking hands. Her best was usually good enough for him, or at least he hardly ever complained, so she'd just do that. She swept her hands across his shoulders and then down his spine like he did to her, then worked her way back up, trying not to press too hard. He always leaned into it, working out the knots slaying tied in her back, but she knew better than to do that. She'd probably crack something and then they'd need to use the urgent care number after all.

He had knots everywhere. She discovered it was sort of soothing, finding each one and rubbing it until it went away - not too hard, but hard enough that he grunted a couple of times, and she froze until he assured her it was fine. But he seemed to like it best when she was just touching him, running her hands along the flat planes of his back and shoulders. He had nice shoulders, broad and strong. A nice back, too. He made soft, contented noises, and she found herself wishing he was feeling up to fooling around after all.

By the time her hands finally started to bother her, he was nearly asleep. She ran them back up his spine to his neck, where she stroked the fine curls at the nape, then up through his hair. Her hands drifted to his ears and temples, and he let out a quiet sigh. When she was pretty sure he was really and truly asleep, she found the washcloth she'd used earlier under the covers, wet it again in the bathroom, and laid it across the back of his neck. He turned his face to the side and murmured something.

"What, G?" she said, crouching.

"Love you," he mumbled, and was out.

She stood by the bed for a long time, staring down at him. It wasn't like it was news to her - she'd surprised a look on his face sometimes, after sex but also just randomly, which had creeped her at first. All guys were in love after sex, but she'd never known one that loved her the rest of the time, too. He'd never come right out and said it, though. He knew better than that. But now, half asleep and still kinda feverish, he'd gone and done it. Hell, maybe he'd known exactly what he was doing. That'd be just like G, saying it in a way that let her take it or leave it. She could just say nothing and it'd be like it never happened. They could pretend he didn't remember it - maybe he really wouldn't. It didn't have to change anything. It _didn't_ change anything. He'd loved her before and she'd known it, now he'd just . . . said it.

And yeah, freaky. Again. Today had just about exceeded her limits in terms of freakiness, and the freakiest thing of all was that hauling ass down to the highway and hitching a ride out of here - well, it entered her mind, but it'd definitely lost its appeal. Most of it, at least.

She tucked the covers back up around him so he wouldn't get chilled, and got dressed. She needed that jog, and a cig, and she was hungry, too, now that she was thinking about it. She wanted to swing by the cemetery, make sure no vamps were trying to claw their way out of the frozen ground. It was sorta like killing fish in a barrel to stake them like that before they'd even gotten their feet under them, but it'd make her feel better. A stake through the heart was a lot easier to deal with than falling in love with a guy who loved her back and, worse yet, might actually be good for her.

_Fin._


End file.
